


Lay Down Your Arms

by merle_p



Series: Love and War [1]
Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Armitage Hux Lives, Coping, Denial of Feelings, Enemies to Lovers, Fantasizing about S&M, Feelings Realization, Hopeful Ending, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Post-Canon, Post-War, Rough Sex, Secret Relationship, Self-Doubt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-21
Updated: 2020-02-21
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:53:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22422142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/merle_p/pseuds/merle_p
Summary: “Are you flirting with me?” Hux had blurted out, too perplexed to keep his mouth under control, and Dameron had blinked slowly, as if the thought hadn’t previously occurred to him but he wasn’t entirely opposed to the idea.“So what if I am?” he had finally said, and he had slurred his words enough to make it obvious that he was very, very drunk. (They are always drunk when they do this, and if Hux was a different, better person, perhaps that observation would give him pause.) Behind the haziness, however, Dameron’s gaze had still been perceptive and calculating, the set of his jaw issuing a challenge as much as an invitation.
Relationships: Poe Dameron/Armitage Hux
Series: Love and War [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1641784
Comments: 12
Kudos: 143
Collections: Chocolate Box - Round 5





	Lay Down Your Arms

**Author's Note:**

  * For [humanveil](https://archiveofourown.org/users/humanveil/gifts).



> Hello humanveil, I was inspired by your letter and couldn't resist writing some Hux lives! post-canon enemies-to-lovers fic ... Hope you enjoy this treat <3
> 
> There is also a sequel to this story, because apparently I had more to say about those two than I initially thought. The sequel is here: [And Surrender to Me](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22619695).
> 
> The titles of the first and second fic in this series taken together (“Lay down your arms and surrender to me”) are a line from the Pearl Jam song [Soldier of Love](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6vcGqDhv4xE), which is about both love and (the end of) war, just like these two stories. (I do also admit that the idea of Poe as the “Soldier of Love” secretly makes me happy, so there’s that.)

The air is hazy, carrying the smell of alcohol and t’bac, and the dimmed lighting makes the nearly empty underground bar look only slightly more inviting. The generic, mind-numbingly repetitive background music reminds him of the soundtrack to a cheap pornographic HoloNet feature.

For the past two hours, the only other patrons have been a sad-looking Besalisk in the back working his way through a row of shot glasses, and a Pau’an of indeterminate gender engaged in deep conversation with a human woman in the corner booth. The barkeep, a hairy giant of a man, is wiping the counter down with a rug that looks dirty enough to make his efforts seem doomed from the start.

The noise of a barstool scraping across the concrete floor alerts him to a new arrival to his left, but he doesn’t look up from his drink until the person leans towards him and says:

“You come here often?”

He snorts at that, despite himself, before he even lifts his eyes to see the familiar cocky smile accompanying the words. 

The smirk is there, predictably, although he notices that it is a little less cheeky than usual. General Dameron looks tired, worn down at the edges, a sense of fatigue lurking in the corners of his eyes, the tilt of his mouth. 

“A Tsiraki, double,” Dameron tells the bartender when the man slowly makes his way over to their end of the bar. 

Hux raises his brows. “Bad day?” he asks while the barkeep digs the bottle out from behind two rows of equally nasty-looking alien liquors. 

“Kriffin’ terrible,” Dameron grunts. “I hate politics. Yours?”

Before he can answer, the barkeeper slams a glass onto the table and fills it to the rim with the blue liquid. 

“Same for me,” Hux tells him, then changes his mind. “On second thought, just leave the bottle.”

He slides a handful of credit chips across the bar. The giant swipes them off the wooden surface and wanders off without giving them a second glance. 

Now it is Dameron’s turn to lift a brow. “That bad, huh?”

Hux shrugs and busies himself with pouring his drink so he doesn’t have to answer the question. 

It’s not that today was that much worse than any other day during these past long, _long_ few months. 

It’s just that he’s so tired of it all. 

Tired of the uncomfortable weight of the ankle monitor that the Resistance had slapped on him in the early days after the final battle because they couldn’t figure out whether to treat him like a war criminal, a defector, or an unlikely (unlikable) hero. 

Tired of being questioned for the billionth time by the representatives of five different planetary governments on his role in the destruction of the Hosnian system, as if they think he’ll eventually come up with a better answer if only they ask him often enough.

Tired of listening to politicians argue in his presence about whether he deserves the death penalty for his actions in the war, or whether his intimate knowledge of Ren’s military strategies makes him too valuable to waste on a carbon-freezing chamber. 

He downs the glass in two gulps, grimacing at the taste. 

“I heard the Coruscant delegation is supporting your and General Finn’s candidacy for the New Council,” he finally says, to distract himself from the heavy weight of Dameron’s gaze and the brief, sudden urge to vomit that always sets in after his first dose of Tsiraki. If he can wait it out, he knows, it’ll pass quickly, making room for a much more pleasant warmth. 

“Yeah,” Dameron huffs, setting his glass down with enough force that some of the remaining liquid spills over his hand. “That’s because they think they can use us as puppets to advance their economic interests in the trade negotiations.”

He lifts his hand to his mouth absent-mindedly and licks the liquor off his knuckles. Hux tries very hard not to stare. 

“What did you expect?” he asks, and refills his glass. 

“I don’t know,” Dameron shrugs unhappily, and reaches for the bottle. “I know that I didn’t fight this war so the rich could get richer.”

Hux shakes his head. “Still such an idealist.”

Dameron raises his brows. “Only you could make that sound like an insult,” he says dryly. 

He moves as if to get up, and for a moment Hux wonders if he has actually offended him. But Dameron just leans over the counter to flag down the barkeep again. 

“Key?” he asks, when the man shuffles over, and pushes more credit chips across the bar.

The barman smirks, but sticks a hand into the pocket of his apron and hands over a key fob without a word. Dameron mimics a lazy, unapologetic salute. The barkeeper snorts and waves him off before walking away. 

If he knows who they are, he has never let on, despite the fact that their faces are both routinely featured on the HoloNews these days. Of course, the promise of anonymity is largely why customers seek out this crappy dive, and asking too many questions about what a former General of the First Order and a former General of the Resistance get up to in a place like this would not be good for business. 

On the other hand, Hux has no illusions about the fact that the man would sell them out without a second thought for the right price. 

He wonders if Dameron is at all worried about that. 

“Ready?” Dameron dangles the key fob in front of his face. Hux knocks back the rest of the vile blue liquid in his glass and pushes himself away from the bar. 

“After you,” he says, and slides off his chair. 

It had been two weeks into the initial post-war negotiations and Hux’ mental barriers had already been worn down by the side effects of diplomacy and peace. When he had finally felt too close to losing what little was left of his sanity, he had escaped from the gleaming-bright reality of Coruscant’s Senate Building and the lonely sterility of his assigned room into the seedier corners of CoCo Town, where people passed him in the dark streets with no sign of recognition. 

And there, slumped over a glass of whiskey at the bar in the first awful dive he had stumbled into, had been no one other than General Poe Dameron, hiding from his own demons or perhaps simply from all the people who wanted his opinion on one thing or another these days. 

Hux had considered slipping back out the door unnoticed, and instead decided on a whim to pay for the man’s drinks, in a gesture that was less a “Sorry for killing your friends” and more a “Why the fucking hell not.” 

Dameron had been nothing but civil towards him ever since their lucky escape from the Destroyer, but Hux had still half expected him to throw the whiskey in his face, had perhaps even perversely looked forward to a straightforward blatant display of disgust. 

Instead, Dameron had toasted him with a sardonic salute and then actually joined him at his table. 

There had been more drinking, and likely an exchange of words, though Hux cannot for the life of him remember any of them now.

What he does remember is Dameron leaning across the table and glancing up at him from underneath impossibly long lashes, as if he was waiting for Hux to do something. 

“Are you flirting with me?” Hux had blurted out, too perplexed to keep his mouth under control, and Dameron had blinked slowly, as if the thought hadn’t previously occurred to him but he wasn’t entirely opposed to the idea. 

“So what if I am?” he had finally said, and he had slurred his words enough to make it obvious that he was very, very drunk. (They are always drunk when they do this, and if Hux was a different, better person, perhaps that observation would give him pause.) Behind the haziness, however, Dameron’s gaze had still been perceptive and calculating, the set of his jaw issuing a challenge as much as an invitation. 

Hux still doesn’t know exactly what possessed Dameron to come on to him that night. He does know that as much as Dameron believes in the lofty ideals of peace and freedom, he is also more than a little reckless, sometimes impulsive, addicted to the rush of adrenaline. And perhaps it was as simple as that: Dameron missing the thrill of the chase and the danger of the fight, and figuring that getting fucked by a First Order General was in some ways the next best thing. 

And Hux himself – Hux had been worn thin from seeing cold indifference at best, simmering hatred at worst in the face of every single person he crossed paths with those days, and a secret, shameful part of him had felt such utter gratefulness at the defiant curiosity in Dameron’s eyes that the possibility of resisting its pull had never even crossed his mind. 

The backroom they step into is dark, dirty, and depressingly sparse, empty save for a gritty sink, a large bed covered with stained threadbare sheets, and a rickety table supporting a large dispenser of the cheapest slick, a blunt reminder of the room’s main purpose. 

It’s ugly and awful and right now Hux could not care less. Before the door has even fully closed behind them, he has got his fingers tangled up in dark curls, is licking his way into Dameron’s mouth.

Dameron makes a noise, half sigh, half groan, and presses up against him, pulling him closer, fingers gripping the back of his shirt. Hux catches Dameron’s bottom lip between his teeth, bites down too hard, tastes blood, reels back, but Dameron just laughs, licks his lips, and dives back in. 

Blindly, Hux wrestles with the hem of Dameron’s soft linen shirt, pulling it upwards impatiently, hissing in frustration when all he succeeds in is getting it tangled up around Dameron’s waist. Dameron swats his hands away, starts to slide the shirt over his head himself, and Hux takes advantage of his momentarily trapped arms to let his own palms explore the miles of perfect, golden skin that are revealed, the soft slant of his shoulders, the well-defined pecs, the spatter of coarse dark curls around his bellybutton.

He wants to mark him. Bite the curve of his neck, hard enough to leave purple traces in the shape of his teeth, dig his fingers into the dip of his hipbones until bruises bloom under his grip, draw bloody lines by raking his nails down the broad expanse of his back, break him, open him up, tear him apart, and then put him back together and start all over again. 

He doesn’t understand why, and it scares him. Perhaps he is a sadist after all, as he’s been told many times before, by superiors, subordinates, and enemies alike. It is not an altogether satisfying explanation, but far less frightening than the other possibility, which he tries not to let himself consider.

“See something that you like?” Dameron grins and spreads his arms out wide. The shirt has been flung carelessly on the bed behind them, and Hux realizes that he’s been staring for far too long. 

“Maybe,” he says lightly, as if his fingertips aren’t itching with the need to reach out and touch once more. 

“Well, what are you waiting for?” Dameron says, a walking cliché, and just for that Hux shoves him, pushing him backwards and down onto the bed. 

Dameron goes easily and without a fight, falling back onto the mattress and looking up at him from dark, hooded eyes as he slips a lazy hand down the front of his own pants. Hux makes a sound that he doesn’t quite recognize himself and follows Dameron onto the bed, pressing him down into the sheets, recapturing his mouth. 

Their kisses are more frantic now, aggressive and dirty and wet, and Dameron is pushing his hips up and against him eagerly while his fingers snake into the back of his shirt collar, warm and rough against the top of his spine. 

“Too much fabric,” Dameron pants against his lips, and they shed the rest of their clothes as quickly as they can without breaking their kiss. 

They’ve done this before, of course, but it’s a rush, this feeling, each and every time: The moment when they are fully naked, pressed against each other, skin to skin, their legs entwined. Dameron’s erection is a warm and heavy weight against his abdomen, and his own full cock is trapped against the curve of Dameron’s groin, so hypersensitive that he can hardly bear the feeling of Dameron’s pubic hair dragging against the skin with every movement. 

He runs his hands down Dameron’s back, palms his gorgeous ass, digs his fingers into the firm muscle, then pulls the cheeks apart just far enough to let an index finger slide in between. 

Dameron shudders and groans against his neck. “Been thinking all week about you fucking me,” he says hoarsely, and before Hux can even start to process those words, Dameron is pushing against his chest to create just enough space so he can slide free of their embrace and roll over onto all fours, waiting for him to catch up.

Hux slowly pushes himself up to his knees behind Dameron’s back and for a moment lets himself stare. He can never quite wrap his mind around how Dameron just offers himself up that easily, as if he’s not at all wondering whether one day he’ll end up with a knife to the back; how he’ll spread his legs and tilt his hips as if it doesn’t mean anything, as if this isn’t a form of surrender. 

And perhaps it isn’t. Because for all that he’ll let Hux hold him down and fuck him senseless, Hux never really feels like he’s actually the one in control. 

He rests one hand against the curve of Dameron’s lower back and uses a scoop of the cheap lube to perform some perfunctory prep with the other, but they are both eager to move on to the main act, and soon enough Dameron is pushing against his finger impatiently, turning his head back to look at him. 

“Come on, man,” he urges. “Give me your fucking cock.”

One day, Hux thinks, he’ll actually make him wait for it, draw it out, make him beg a little longer. In reality, though, he never does – he barely waits for Dameron to stop talking before he takes hold of his hips, lines himself up, and slides in. 

He goes slow but steady, doesn’t stop moving until he’s bottomed out, his balls pressed up against the back of Dameron’s thighs, and fucking General Poe Dameron just takes it all as if this right here is what he was made for. 

“Move, move, come on,” he is saying now, already frantic with need, “you can move, I’m fine,” and there’s really nothing Hux can do in response to that but comply. 

He settles into a steady rhythm, tries not to go too fast, because he knows he won’t last long if he does, and he’s not ready yet for this to be over. Dameron doesn’t make it easy, though, because he is so kriffin’ talkative – just rambles on, urging, begging, praising, pushing Hux closer and closer to the edge. 

“That feels so fucking good,” he groans, arching his back. “Your cock feels so fucking good.”

Hux slaps his ass for that, just hard enough to sting. “I bet you say that to all the boys,” he says, because it would be so easy to let himself believe all the crazy things coming out of Dameron’s mouth. 

“No, no,” Dameron pants, swears, shaking his head in something like desperation, “there’s no one else,” and of course he’s lying, he _must_ be lying, but the words trigger something in Hux' brain, break down a wall he’s been so, so very careful to protect. 

He grips Dameron’s hair and pulls his head back, hard. Dameron gasps, but he doesn’t resist, so Hux tugs again, pulls his head back further and further, until Dameron’s neck is stretched long and he’s breathing hard, struggling to keep himself propped up on his hands.

“That’s right,” Hux hisses, pounding into him until Dameron’s left arm gives out under him and he ends up face down in the mattress, sliding across the sheets until he finally manages to push himself up once more. Hux leans forward, then, one hand still gripping Dameron’s curls, and slides his free arm around his ribcage so their bodies are sealed together, chest to back. 

“No one else,” he growls against Dameron’s neck, his hand splayed wide over his chest. “I’m going to fuck you so hard that you’ll feel me inside you all week.”

Dameron sobs and trembles, heart racing under Hux’ palm, and Hux thinks, absurdly, that if he could reach inside his chest and feel that heartbeat against his fingers, he would. 

“I’m going to fuck you until you forget everyone who’s ever touched you before,” he says, and he doesn’t even recognize his own voice anymore. “I’m going to fuck you until my name is the only thing you remember, until this is all you’ll ever ask for, until I die ...”

His voice gives out, as he is pulled under in a wave of pleasure and pain. Dimly, he feels Dameron’s body go tense underneath him, then shudder, and for a moment, his vision turns black. 

“I still don’t know why you are even talking to me,” he once said, in an attempt to figure out Dameron’s angle, several weeks into this strange arrangement that he’d been expecting to end ever since it began, but that still, somehow, was continuing, against all odds.

If Dameron was surprised by his candor, he didn’t say. Instead he leaned across the gap between them to pull the bottle of firewater closer to himself, his sleeve brushing against the back of Hux’ wrist for a brief, tantalizing moment. 

“We are on the same side,” he shrugged, and poured himself another shot. 

“Debatable,” Hux said dryly. His eyes followed the long line of Dameron’s throat as he drank, head thrown back, then quickly looked away when Dameron set down his glass. 

“You risked your life to pass information on to the Resistance,” Dameron said matter-of-factly, as if it really was as simple as that. 

Hux rolled his eyes. “After destroying an entire star system.”

“Yeah,” Dameron said, the alcohol making his voice sound a little slower, softer. 

“After that.” 

He looked up at Hux from underneath hooded eyes. “I’ve killed people too, you know.”

“Stormtroopers,” Hux huffed. “Didn’t they give you a medal for that?”

“Hey,” Dameron protested, pushing himself up straighter in his chair. “I’ll have you know that some of my best friends used to be stormtroopers.” 

He slumped back down, his shoulders dropping. Suddenly he looked very, very tired. 

“The armor,” he said and reached for the bottle again. “The armor was a mistake, man.”

“What?” Hux frowned, fully aware how pointlessly ridiculous it was to feel the need to defend the First Order’s military equipment, even now. “The armor was meant to intimidate and offer protection in battle. No doubt it achieved both of those things.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” Dameron said, gesturing impatiently, sloppily. “But it also made it very easy to shoot at them, you know? They didn’t look like people. They didn’t even look like droids. They were just … empty shells. But once we understood that there were actual people underneath those masks, people we might come to love …”

“I didn’t wear a mask,” Hux said, and he was almost certain that he was trying to make a point, although he couldn’t quite put his finger on what it was. 

Dameron blinked slowly. “Yes you did,” he said, and he sounded just drunk enough for Hux to pretend that he wasn’t making any sense. 

“Well,” Dameron says finally, stretching his arms over his head. 

“That was something.”

He looks relaxed and far too comfortable tangled up in the sticky mess they have made of the sheets, but Hux feels his face heat up in shame.

“Sorry,” he says stiffly, the shape of the word unfamiliar on his tongue. “I got carried away.”

Dameron shrugs, his smile slow and easy. “I didn’t exactly complain.” 

A stray curl is falling into his forehead, and without thinking Hux raises his hand to push it away. When he realizes what he is doing, he aborts the movement abruptly, his hand dropping heavily back onto the bed. 

Dameron looks at him for a long moment, then very slowly and deliberately brushes his fingertips against the back of his hand where it rests on the sheets.

“Hey,” he says lightly. “Dedicating the rest of your life to fucking me is a noble ambition.”

The joke is an easy opening to brush off the awkwardness, but Hux can’t quite bring himself to play along.

“At least you know that the rest of my life is not going to be very long,” he says wryly. 

“What?” Dameron blinks, confused. 

Hux wishes he could pull the sheets closer to cover himself, but that would be far too obvious. 

“There’s still a good chance that they’ll execute me before the negotiations are over.”

Dameron frowns at him. “They are not going to execute you.” 

“Maybe, maybe not,” Hux shrugs, watching his own fingers draw random circular patterns into the mattress. “But even if they let me go, five months from now, someone – one of your former stormtrooper friends, or someone with family in the Hosnian system – is going to be waiting for me in my bedroom when I come home and blast my brains out, and no one is going to be terribly upset.”

Dameron makes an odd sound and scrambles to push himself up to sitting. For a fleeting moment, Hux wonders if he’s going to get up and just leave him here, naked and humiliated, covered in come and sweat. 

But then, flight has never been really Dameron’s style. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” he asks sharply. He looks angry, though Hux is not entirely sure why. 

“Just stating the facts,” he says flatly. “Sugarcoating it is not going to help.”

“You are so –“ Dameron throws up his hands in obvious frustration. “I don’t get it.” He shakes his head. “Do you even _want_ to live?”

The unexpected question is like a blaster shot to the gut, slicing through him with a surge of white-hot pain. Suddenly he finds it hard to breathe. 

“I want – “ he starts without thinking, then stops himself. His heart is drumming a violent beat in his chest. 

Dameron gives him a questioning look. “You want what?”

He feels dizzy. If he looked down, he is fairly certain that he’d see his fingers shake. 

“I want to fuck you in a proper bed.”

“What?” Dameron laughs a little, more confused than actually amused. 

“You asked me what I want,” Hux says. His mouth is dry. “This is it. A proper bed, white sheets, and no need to keep an eye on the clock.”

Dameron looks stunned, his mouth slack, his face completely still except for a miniscule twitch in the corner of his eye, and Hux feels his stomach tighten with mortified anticipation. 

But Dameron doesn’t laugh. Instead his face melts into something softer, something awfully close to compassionate, tender even, and it turns out that this is much, much worse than the merciless mocking Hux had feared. 

“Alright,” Dameron says slowly, as if he is still processing the thought. “Alright. A proper bed. That can be arranged.”

Hux smirks, suddenly desperate to hide behind a sarcastic façade. “It can?”

Dameron shrug, unbothered. “Why not,” he says, his voice deceptively light. “Might be nice not having to worry about flea bites anymore.” 

He leans closer, the set of his mouth serious as he looks him in the eye.

“I am going to take care of the bed,” he says, and reaches out a hand. “You just work on staying alive.”

Hux blinks incredulously at his outstretched hand, considers ignoring it, considers slapping it away, then he swallows and extends his own for the formal handshake he expects. 

Instead, Dameron links their fingers together, and lies back down on the bed. 

Hux looks down at their joint hands for a long time, but Dameron doesn’t give any indication of wanting to let go. Finally he lets his head drop back on the pillow, stares up at the ceiling, and forces himself to breathe. 

In a moment, the world around them will shift back into focus, with all its dirt and grime and dust. 

In a moment, he’ll be shivering from the cold and adrenaline crash, and he’ll feel mildly disgusted by the mysterious stains in the grayish, rarely-washed sheets that he didn’t pay attention to before.

In a moment, they’ll get up and start getting dressed, slip back into their armors to face the world outside. 

But right now, his skin still feels too hot, his pulse is still going far too fast, and Dameron is still lying next to him, their fingers entangled, their legs just barely touching at the knees.


End file.
